The classroom had that stale, too-early feeling — fluorescent lights buzzing softly, notebooks flipping open, people half-asleep at their desks. You were focused on your notes when the chair beside you scraped back with the grace of a car crash.

“Guess I’m your new neighbor,” a voice drawled, a smooth southern accent, casual and cocky all at once

You glanced over and immediately knew two things: (1) He was trouble, and (2) He knew it. Messy dark hair stuck up like he’d lost a fight with gravity, a busted knuckle rested on the desk, and a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth like he was two seconds from starting something. He dropped into the seat like it owed him rent, slouching low, legs stretched out too far.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” you muttered, eyes back on your notebook.

“Too late,” he shot back, leaning in like he was telling a secret. “Comfy’s kinda my thing.”

You side-eyed him, catching a glimpse of the bruise blooming across his cheekbone. It was fresh, purplish-blue, the kind you don’t walk away from smiling — but there he was, grinning like he’d won the fight anyway.

“Rough night?” you asked, barely looking up.

“Rough life, sweetheart,” he quipped, tapping his pencil against the desk like a countdown. “But I’m still here, so I’d say I’m winning.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, more out of disbelief than anything else. Of course he thought that was winning. Guys like him always did. Too stubborn to quit, too wild to sit still. And now he was here, parked next to you for who knows how long.

The professor’s voice droned on, but it didn’t matter. You could feel him next to you — fidgeting, tapping, pulling at the frayed hem of his jeans. He had the kind of presence that refused to be ignored, no matter how much you tried.

Perfect.